Same Song
by runningfromexplosions
Summary: John Watson and Sherlock Holmes don't see each other for years...that is, until they meet again at the wedding of a mutual friend they didn't even know they had. At the dance after the ceremony, Sherlock requests a certain song to get John's attention. Johnlock, based on a prompt from Tumblr. Post-S3.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes adjusted his bow tie. He looked into the mirror, where a tall man in a navy blue suit looked back at him, long fingers tugging at the ends of the black silk.

_Five years._

It had been five years since the wedding he had tried to delete from his mind palace. Sherlock may have forgotten the details, but he couldn't erase the memory of emotion seizing his rational mind and telling him to run. He'd left the wedding early. Not because he didn't like the couple getting married. Not because he thought they didn't deserve each other. Not because he was jealous; Sherlock Holmes was not supposed to get jealous. Others were supposed to get jealous of _him_, awed by his perspicacious intellect and superior deductive skills. No, defeated was what he felt. He'd failed himself somehow...

It was lucid, then, that Sherlock didn't like weddings (aside from his belief that they were merely a custom set by society, and in some cases an excuse for people to go on holiday and sleep with each other). But Eileen had made him promise. And although Sherlock didn't even know Eileen and Jeff that well, he was partially responsible for them getting together, so Eileen had insisted on the detective's invitation. Anyway, it wasn't like he was best man or anything.

The pestilent voice in the back of Sherlock's mind began to prod his conscious, reminding him of the one time he _was_ best man at a wedding. _The_ Wedding. Sherlock sent the voice a mental _shut up _as he imagined the memory as paper shriveling in a fire. Much better.

Like surfacing after a dive, Sherlock pulled himself out of his imagination and back into reality. During his contemplation he had absentmindedly undone his bow tie. He groaned in mild frustration.

"Everything all right in there, dear?" asked Mrs. Hudson as she knocked on the other side of the door to Sherlock's room.

"Yes, fine." Sherlock retied the black silk around his neck and swiftly opened the door. Mrs. Hudson was wearing a nervous smile that meant, _what have you done this time, Sherlock?_

"Just wondering what you've got by the staircase in that big covered cage of yours. It's making quite the noise and I've already made more calls to 999 this week than I have in the last six months. Don't give me a reason to make another one, young man."

"It's nothing to be concerned about, Mrs. Hudson. Despite the sound it makes, it is not, in fact, a crying infant."

(_Thank goodness,_ Mrs. Hudson whispered to herself).

"Where are you off to, wearing such a nice suit?" she asked as Sherlock swept across the room to snatch his signature coat, "Oh, have you found yourself a date?"

"I don't _date_," Sherlock said, popping his coat collar. "Not anymore. Awfully pedestrian activity." Sherlock grimaced slightly as he recalled his previous "experiments" in the area and the degree of discomfort he associated with them. "Now if you don't mind, I have a wedding to go to. Eileen wouldn't take 'no, I'm busy gathering scientific data' for an excuse.

And before Mrs. Hudson could tell him that his bow tie was askew, Sherlock slipped out of 221B.


	2. Chapter 2

**_Hey, so that first chapter was more of a prologue than a chapter. This part is more of a real chapter, in which we move into the main story. Enjoy!_**

* * *

Jeff and Eileen's wedding was held at a vineyard in the countryside. On the verandah of the large house that also served as the winery, guests laughed and chatted and drank under the partly cloudy sky. Sherlock observed their jovial activity as he followed the cobblestone path that led up to the mansion-like building. Nobody on the porch seemed to acknowledge him, as they were too wrapped up in their small talk or perhaps already somewhat drunk. Sherlock supposed both was possible. He wasn't dismayed by the lack of attention, though, because he would rather not listen to their intoxicated babble anyway, thank you very much.

"Sherlock!"

The detective turned around and was nearly knocked over by a whirlwind of blonde curls and white fabric as he was pulled into a brief, tight embrace. Dr. Eileen Noble, looking (and acting) unlike her professional self, was wearing a wedding dress and a necklace of pearls. Still, Sherlock recognised the same woman he had met at the site of a bombed-out hospital almost a year ago. The young doctor was accompanied by her soon-to-be husband, the officer whom Sherlock had met on the very same case. Jeff Bridges laughed at Eileen's burst of energy, and he stepped forward to give Sherlock a friendly handshake.

"Glad you could make it. Eileen's been waiting for you to get here so she can tell everyone what happened at the hospital last year. I told her that explosions aren't the sort of thing you'd usually want to talk about at a wedding, but..."

"His chip shop story was boring in comparison," Eileen interrupted. Jeff shot her a fake angry look and then smiled. They both laughed a little at the same time. Sherlock tried to look cheerful but he couldn't help but think of giggling at a crime scene with an old friend of his. Eileen and Jeff, a doctor and a man with law enforcement, the kind of people who laughed together: it was all very familiar, wasn't it? They were like the retelling of an old story, except this time with a happy ending.

"Excuse me, but are you Sherlock Holmes?" asked a woman whom Sherlock deduced to be one of the bridesmaids, moving over to the detective.

"Maybe," said Sherlock, dryly.

"Yes," Eileen translated.

"I read about you in the papers. I thought Eileen was joking when she said she'd met you, but...oh my God, she wasn't!"

By now a few other guests on the verandah had broken up their conversations. They began to whisper to each other, casting the occasional glance in Sherlock's direction. Eileen gestured for them to come over, so there would be an audience.

"Right," said Jeff. "We were going to tell this story later, but it looks like we're stuck with telling it now."

_Laughter from the guests._

"This guy, Sherlock Holmes, was at the hospital Eileen used to work at, on the day it was bombed. You probably heard about the disaster on the news. Reporter said some terrorist had done it, probably killed himself in the process, but Sherlock was convinced that the maniac had escaped. He also knew exactly _how_ the guy escaped, too. Me and the other officers-"

(_The other officers and_ I, Sherlock muttered under his breath).

"-we were listening to him explain his thought process, and he was telling us exactly which way to go to catch our bomber before he got to his next target, when one of our dogs began to bark like mad.

"We ran over to where the dog was, on the side of the hospital that had taken less of the damage. Under a series of beams that had deflected some of the falling rubble, there were a group of survivors. Most of them were passed out, some from inhaling dust and ashes, but they were alive. And then I saw Eileen. I mean, I recognised her-we used to live on the same street-but we didn't really like each other then-"

"We hated each other," said Eileen.

"Yeah, we sort of did," Jeff admitted.

_More laughter from the guests._ Jeff continued-

"Eileen was still conscious. I was going to help her up, but she said, _go away, I'm fine, I'm fine_...I thought she was talking nonsense, and the emergency medics agreed. The ones from another hospital, obviously."

Eileen took over the story. "Later, I was sitting in an ambulance wrapped in a shock blanket. I wanted to help the other survivors from the wreck, I mean, I was feeling better, but Jeff came over and said that I should stay where I was. So I shoved him and told him he was being an idiot, because I could help save lives. So then he shoved me back, just a little. So we started arguing and shoving each other about."

"Then _Sherlock_ showed up. He walked right over to us and said-"

_"Go on, tell everyone what you said,"_ Eileen whispered to Sherlock.

"Er," Sherlock stammered, a bit uncomfortable. He straightened his posture and recited in his most theatrical voice, the voice he liked to use most when on cases,"_'Oh, will you just shut up and kiss each other already, you're driving me insane!'_"

The guests burst into hysterics. Sherlock couldn't help but smile a bit himself.

"So, we looked awkwardly at each other, Sherlock marched off to who knows where, and...well, you can guess what happened next," Eileen said once the uproar had begun to fade. There was a second of near-silence in which a single person began to clap, but then the clapping spread and the noise escalated again as everyone at once tried to talk to Eileen, Jeff, or Sherlock.

Sherlock was reminded of the attention he had recieved when he was the famous "Britain's #1 Detective," as one newspaper headline read. The media was wild about him."Hat-Man," as another paper called him, raced about the streets of London wearing an ear-hat atop his head, solving crimes with his...

...partner.

His Robin.

John.

* * *

The following portions of the wedding were boring to Sherlock, but he was "on his best behaviour" (a phrase Mrs. Hudson often used back at the flat to remind Sherlock of his manners). Well, at least he made an _effort _not to talk about his favourite subject of homicide.

There was one thing, however, that Sherlock anticipated eagerly, and that was the dance. Sherlock loved dancing. When he was in a good mood, he loved to spin and leap about in his flat. Sometimes Mrs. Hudson would pop her head into the room and grin, saying "Oh, Sherlock, just look at you having fun!" and Sherlock would put down his violin and turn on the radio and then the both of them would dance for a while, not caring how silly they looked. One time Molly had joined them. Another time Lestrade had caught Sherlock doing a sort of dance as the consulting detective analysed a crime scene, and the inspector laughed so hard that he began to cry.

Dance times were the best times.

The dance at Eileen and Jeff's wedding was held in a long white room with large chandeliers that sparkled with orange light. Long bay windows framed in gold peeked through series of pillars along three of the walls. It was a very elegant setting, yet the music was of a different mood. Sherlock listened to some old pop music as he scanned the room from his position near the DJ's table. He wanted to find someone to dance with, but everyone had already seemed to have found a partner.

Sherlock's eyes followed Eileen as she left Jeff's side for a moment. The bride walked down to one end of the room and she opened one of the double doors. She seemed to be talking to someone but Sherlock's view of the other person was obstructed. Sherlock's insatiable curiosity got the better of him once again. The detective walked along the aisle between the pillars and the windows to get to an ideal eavesdropping position.

"I'm sorry I couldn't make it to the ceremony. I was caught up in a bit of an unexpected situation," said a man's voice from the other side of the door.

"It's alright, I'm glad you could at least make it to the dance. Nothing to worry about, just enjoy yourself," said Eileen.

"Thanks," said the man. Eileen moved back into the crowd of dancers, and for the first time, Sherlock got a decent look at the newcomer. The late arrival was wearing formal brown shoes and a Prussian blue suit, an odd combination that somehow worked for the man. He wasn't very tall, and his blond hair was greying, but somehow he was good-looking. Familiar, even.

_Impossible._

No, not impossible. Improbable, but if Sherlock's deductions were correct, someone he knew was standing in the doorway.

Someone by the name of John Hamish Watson.

* * *

_**Haha, cliffhanger! Sorry everyone. I don't write very often, so let me know if there's anything in this chapter that was confusing or awkward. I'd appreciate your honest opinions. Thanks guys!**_


	3. Chapter 3

The ever-turning gears in the mind of Sherlock Holmes stopped for a rare moment. All thought halted. The only thing Sherlock could focus on in that instant was the pounding of his heart in his otherwise immobile body. Finally, the gears began to turn and the thoughts began running again..._Johnjohnjohnjohnjohn..._the name consumed his conscious.

Sherlock wanted to run to him. He wanted to surprise his old friend with a hug, but that was probably _not good. _John might not react in a friendly manner. The last time the two of them had reunited after years of not seeing each other, Sherlock had been punched in the face. Thrice. Aside from that, Sherlock worried that if given the opportunity to hug John, he might not be able to let go. But there must be some way of getting the man's attention. Some _subtle _way...

_The DJ._ Sherlock turned to look at the table across the room where a young man sat with a laptop computer and a tangle of wires leading to the speakers. _This could work..._

The detective strode over to the table.

"Excuse me."

The DJ stopped nodding his head and he slipped off his headphones to hang them around his neck.

"Yeah, wuzzat? You need sumf'n?"

"I'd like to make a request."

"A'right, what for?"

"Ah," Sherlock paused. What song would get John's attention? _Think. Use your mind palace._ _John. Where were the files on John? Songs I like to dance to...songs John has danced to...(why didn't I delete those?)...John's favourite music. Yes. The Four...something. Four..._

"_'Oh What a Night' _by the Four Seasons. Could you put it on?"

"Sure. Jus' a minute..."

Sherlock stepped back a few paces. His breathing was erratic with nervous anticipation. He had to remain calm. He had to stay put. He had to look for John and try to catch the ex-army doctor's eye. _This is it, then._

John entered into a group that had stopped dancing for a moment; the previous song was ending. He looked relaxed; he smiled and said something brief, probably a greeting. John shook a few hands, talked a bit more...Sherlock worried that John might get absorbed into a conversation...

_**Oh what a night, late December back in '63...**_

John froze. Someone next to him must have kept talking because the ex-army doctor held up a hand and then resumed his stiff position.

_**What a very special time for me...**_

John turned in the direction of the speakers. His eyes wandered from the DJ's table and past Sherlock.

_**As I remember what a night...**_

John's eyes snapped back and immediately met Sherlock's. They could have been in a stadium, somehow finding each other among the thousands of other people in the were at an aquarium, looking through the same tank from opposite sides of the glass, at each other. They were two stars, winking at each other from across the universe. The setting didn't matter. Not the time, nor the place. It was only them and their connection, the inevitable pull of gravity. Everyone and everything else was just the blurred background in a photograph.

Before either of them knew it, they were standing with hardly any space in between them, an incredulous look on John's face; a bittersweet smile on Sherlock's.

"Sher...lock..." John said breathlessly.

"Hello, John."

"What...what are you doing here?"

"I was invited."

"Oh, of course, I didn't mean...that is...I was invited too. Dr. Noble and I have been working at the same surgery for a few months."

"And you're enjoying your work, the more...quotidian lifestyle it provides?"

"I-" John paused.

_**Oh what a night...**_

"-you remembered that I like this song?"

"Yes, it played at your wed-" Sherlock cut himself off. He wasn't sure how sensitive John still was about Mary and what had happened to her. That was just one of the few things Sherlock was poor at deducing: how long does it take for someone to heal from something like that? A year? Five? Ten? Maybe the pain never went away, leaving an ugly scar sometimes difficult to ignore. Supposedly, the experience was different for different people.

John pretended not to have heard Sherlock; he looked to his side and appeared to be absorbed in the music.

_**Sweet surrender, what a night...**_

"...John?"

The shorter man looked back at Sherlock again, this time with a soft smile. Sherlock felt his face grow warm as he looked into John's dark eyes, eyes that reflected a deep, calming blue color.

"Hold on, stay still for a moment," said John. The doctor raised his hands toward Sherlock's face. The detective's pulse began to race; he felt like a wave of energy was passing through his chest. John's fingers settled around Sherlock's neck and took hold of the silk bow tie.

"Your tie was a bit off-centre," John said as he twisted the fabric. He lowered his hands to his side again.

"Ah." Sherlock relaxed but the light feeling was gone. "So..."

"So."

"I'm not really sure what to say," the detective admitted.

"I have too much I want to say. Could I talk to you somewhere, er, quieter?"

"You don't want to dance first?"

"Don't be ridiculous Sherlock, that would look silly."

"Why would it? Didn't I teach you how to dance?"

"That was in the flat, when we were alone. People would stare, Sherlock. And for the last time, I'm not g-"

"Yes, I know, you don't need to repeat yourself for the thousandth time. So, discussion. There's a garden outside. It should work fine as a place to talk. Will that do for you?"

"Yeah, alright."

John followed his old friend out the double doors, thinking that meeting Sherlock again was possibly the wildest thing that had happened to him in five solitary years. He should have never left Baker Street and its most brilliant inhabitant behind.

* * *

I know this chapter was kind of short, but I want their conversation to happen in a separate chapter. It's going to be really feels- heavy. You will get to find out what happened to Mary and why John left Sherlock, so there's that. May be 3 more chapters to this fic.


	4. Chapter 4

Several years ago

* * *

_"Tell me, Sherlock, where are we?"_

_Sherlock Holmes, blindfolded and restrained by guards on either side, instantly recognised the voice of his old enemy Moriarty. The sound was as chilling as the fierce wind that slashed at his face._

_"The roof of St. Bart's. What a creative choice of location." _

_Moriarty must have given a signal because the guards pushed Sherlock to his knees." Getting cheeky, are we? I would have picked somewhere harder for you to figure out, but as this is going to be our last encounter, I thought I'd better give you a taste of nostalgia. You see, I'm going to destroy you."_

_"Delightful," Sherlock snarled. "Killing me. How incredibly original. Not like anyone's tried _that _before."_

_"Oh no no _no._ I'm not going to _kill _you. I'm going to rip your mind open and expose your primitive fears. I'm going to ruin you, Sherlock Holmes."_

_Footsteps to Sherlock's left, a bit of shuffling and the flap of a coat in the wind. Moriarty was very close. _

_"And it's going to be _so _much fun," the psychopath whispered into Sherlock's ear._ _More rustling as he moved out of his bent position near the kneeling detective._

_Moriarty's voice drifted past Sherlock's right. "Now, John Watson. How are we doing? Come on, say something."_

_There was an eerie pause followed by a loud smack. Sherlock stiffened with anger. _

_"TALK! Go on, Johnny. I'm being generous here. This is your chance to say goodbye to Sherlock...really, nothing to say? I'm disappointed in you, Johnny."_

Sputtering, coughing. Probably blood. Blow to the face, then.

_"Moving on. Blindfolds off."_

_Sherlock could see the rooftop now, and the view of London it provided. Moriarty, smug and well-dressed as ever, hands in pockets, stood a few metres away next to a masked assassin. John, on his knees like Sherlock, looked forward wide-eyed, a trail of blood running out his mouth. When he saw John, Sherlock felt like his ribcage was being clamped in his chest._ Hurt me. Fine. Just don't hurt John. Not John.

_"My plan is surprisingly simple, Sherlock. It's like this."_

_Moriarty gestured towards the assassin, who shakily removed her mask. She was crying silently, tears black from the mascara running down her cheeks._

Mary.

_Moriarty giggled. "This is the best. Really, it is. I can't BELIEVE you thought you'd brought down my entire network, Sherlock. There were still five of us. And now, there are six. The woman who calls herself Mary Watson used to work for me. Clever one, she was. She got away. But then, I got lucky, because one of you found her FOR me. Thanks, Johnny! I owe you!"_

_John choked on another spurt of blood._

_"You know what comes next, don't you?" the madman asked no one in particular._

_Silence._

_"We kill John Watson. Don't we, Mary?"_

_Mary retrieved the gun attached to her belt and slowly raised it in John's direction. She was shaking visibly. _

_"I...love you..John," she said in a trembling, broken voice._

_John was quiet except for the sound of his strained breathing. He lowered his head, preparing to be shot. But Mary didn't fire the gun. Instead, she turned and pointed it towards Moriarty._

_The psychopath didn't even flinch. He made a face of mock surprise, mouth in the shape of an "o," and then he burst into wild, psychotic laughter._

_"Oh, this is good. Really good. SEE YOU IN HELL MARY W-"_

Two shots. The first fired from Mary's gun, a direct hit to Moriarty's head. Second shot fired from the gun of one of John's guards as the other guard gripped John's shoulders tightly...

_To Sherlock, John's scream was the worst sound in the entire world. In that moment, the detective's mind was clouded like it had been stuffed full of cotton; he couldn't think properly. He thought the guard had shot John, but no, John was not dying, at least not in the physical sense. The second bullet was for Mary._

_John's guard let go of him. The doctor tried to stand up but his legs wouldn't let him. He fell to his hands and knees as the remaining four of Moriarty's team walked to the roof's exit, mission completed._

_"MARY!" John yelled as he finally managed to pick himself up. He began to run towards the bodies; Sherlock ran after him._

_"John. John!" The detective caught up to his friend, who had taken Mary's wrist, desperately hoping to feel a pulse. "John, let go. There's nothing you can do...just..."_

_"Mary..."_

_Sherlock caught his friend as the doctor collapsed._

* * *

3 Days Later

* * *

_Sherlock left the morgue empty-handed, as Molly wouldn't let him take the pair of human hands he needed for his experiment. She said it would be "inappropriate considering John's situation" because the doctor "might be particularly sensitive about death at the moment." Sherlock didn't really understand why, since he and John were often dealing with things like murder cases. Yet Sherlock still felt sadness over Mary's death. The detective had been occupying himself with macabre distractions as his odd personal way of coping with the loss of his friend. The experiments also helped him look busy whenever John was around. Sherlock didn't want to talk to John because he was worried that he might accidentally say the wrong thing to him. He didn't want to make the mourning man more upset._

_When Sherlock returned to 221B, he saw John in the doorway with several full trunks. There was a cab waiting by the pavement; the cabbie was loading it full with John's trunks. John watched Sherlock as the detective approached him._

_"Sherlock, this...this hasn't been easy for me. I don't expect you to understand but...I need a break."_

_"A break? You mean you're leaving."_

_"Yeah. Listen, this was a really hard decision for me. Trust me, none of this is your fault."_

_Sherlock made a few quick deductions."You're moving out of your house. You stopped by the flat to pick up a few things you left from the last time you were over, but you're not staying here either. Why?"_

_John took a deep breath and let it out. Sherlock noticed that the bags under his friend's eyes looked more pronounced, and the doctor's hair was looking greyer. _

_"I didn't just stop by the flat for a few of my things, okay? I wanted to say goodbye. I'm leaving London."_

_"You're...leaving...London," Sherlock repeated. John smiled sadly, the only smile that had ever managed to break Sherlock's heart so completely. "How long?"_

_"Don't know, to be honest. I mean, I can deal with Afghanistan, and crime, and most deaths, but..." His voice cracked. "Not when my wife has been murdered. My pregnant wife. We were going to have a daughter. We were going to have a family. Oh God, Sherlock."_

_"I'm sorry," said Sherlock, sincerely. He stepped closer to John, carefully reaching out to him. When John didn't move away, Sherlock wrapped his arms around his friend and pulled him into a tight embrace. John leaned in to the hug, pressing his face into the dark fabric of Sherlock's Belstaff coat. _

_"Thank you," John said weakly. He hugged Sherlock back briefly before stepping away towards the cab._

_"Goodbye, then, Sherlock."_

_Sherlock couldn't speak. He tried to say goodbye back, but he felt like an ice cube had lodged itself into his throat._

_From the cab, John looked out the window at the tall figure of Sherlock Holmes. The man's teal eyes were frozen. He didn't blink, even when the breeze from the passing cab tossed his curly hair about his face. He didn't look like a genius detective- he looked like a lost child._

* * *

Present day

* * *

John and Sherlock sat outside on the edge of a fountain surrounded by a hedge. The sky was growing dark, but the water still reflected their forms in the light from the ballroom. John spoke first.

"Leaving you," he began, "Was about the stupidest thing I ever did in my entire life, and I'm sorry."

"Don't be," said Sherlock. "You were away from me for years. You must have enjoyed your new life, since you didn't try to go back to the old one."

"It was alright," John admitted, "But it wasn't amazing or fantastic or brilliant. After a while, I realised I was missing something important."

"Your memory stick? I found it a while back and I wasn't sure what to do with it. Or maybe it was your old jumper. You know, the really ugly one with the Father Christmas on the front?"

John laughed and gave Sherlock's arm a playful swat.

"No, you idiot."

"Oh." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Me, of course."

"I was going to say risk. Danger. But yes, I suppose there is some risk that comes with being around Sherlock Holmes."

"Naturally." Sherlock paused, looking down at his shoes. He gathered his courage and turned to look John in the eyes. "I have a risk to offer you right now."

"Oh?" said John. "And what's that?"

"Come with me. Back to Baker Street. Will you do it?"

John grinned.

"God, yes."

* * *

**Oh man, I almost cried writing this chapter. Almost. I'm not THAT sensitive...anyway, the romance is coming soon, but be patient! Sorry about all the angst. Uggggggh**


	5. Chapter 5

**If you were wondering what was making that crying sound that bothered Mrs. Hudson in Chapter 1, now you'll get to find out...**

* * *

"It's kind of funny," John began as he and Sherlock approached the front door of 221B, "That no matter how many times I try to leave this place, somehow I always end up coming back here."

"Surely you don't believe in curses, John," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"Well, if it _is _a curse, maybe it's the good kind. If there's such a thing as a good curse."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grabbed the knocker, ramming it against the door three times.

"MRS. HUDSON!"

There was the sound of footsteps descending a staircase and a click as Mrs. Hudson opened the door. She was wearing slippers and a flower print apron, so she had probably been tidying the flat before Sherlock had called for her.

"Couldn't you have let yourself in, Sherlock? I'm a bit occupied right now!"

"Er, hello, Mrs. Hudson," John said, moving from behind Sherlock and into view.

"John! Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Hudson gasped. Sherlock couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth curl upward. He might not have shown it openly, but he had been even more enthusiastic about John's return to Baker Street than she was.

"Good to see you," said John, and Mrs. Hudson gave him a hug. After she let go, she asked, "How did you two find each other?"

John gestured to his blue suit and matching tie. "We saw each other at the post-wedding dance. Sherlock asked me to come back to the flat with him, and he wouldn't quit bothering me until I finally acquiesced."

"Liar," said Sherlock. "You agreed to my offer instantly. It probably took all of your will not to jump about like a frivolous imbecile." The detective proceeded to mock his friend by hopping side to side while waving his arms around. John fake-coughed in an attempt to conceal his laughter.

"It's good to see you two acting like your old selves. It's wonderful that you've gotten past your differences and started dating again!" said Mrs. Hudson. John began to sputter in protest, but he was unable to say anything comprehensible before Sherlock grabbed him by the arm and dragged him into 221 B.

"What the _hell, _Sherlock!?" John hissed as he ascended the stairs after his friend. Sherlock said nothing in reply, but he grinned in a way that scrunched up his entire face. The two of them reached the top of the staircase, but John accidentally bumped into the large, cloth-covered cage that Sherlock had neglected earlier. A wailing cry arose from underneath the black fabric.

"_Really_ now,what the _hell?"_

"Oh!" Sherlock said, eyes widening as he realised that he had forgotten about his animal. "John, do me a favour and help me carry it through the door."

John and Sherlock each took hold of an end of the cage, John doing so hesitantly.

"What do you mean exactly by _it?"_

"You'll see."

The men set the cage on the sofa, and Sherlock removed the covering. The bottom of the cage was covered with a shredded newspaper bedding. A wheel made from an empty plastic container, a purple plastic igloo, saucers for food and water, and a couple paper tubes were set inside. Sherlock opened the top of the cage and lifted the igloo. He scooped up whatever was under it and lifted it out of the cage. The bristly ball, now in Sherlock's hands, made an angry huffing noise.

"A hedgehog," John concluded. "Sherlock, why are you keeping a hedgehog? You're not going to poison it, are you?"

"Of course not," Sherlock replied. "I need it for a case. I have to figure out how easily it can be trained."

The hedgehog poked its head out of its defensive ball and it sniffed the air. The bristles on its head were arranged in a way that made it look disgruntled.

"It looks just like you, John," said Sherlock.

"No, it doesn't," said John, making a face that strongly resembled the hedgehog's. "Anyway, you didn't just invite me here to show me your pet, did you?"

"No, I didn't."

Sherlock put the hedgehog back in its habitat, and John noticed that the detective's hands were trembling slightly as the hedgehog was lowered. An imaginary alarm went off in the doctor's head.

"Sherlock."

The detective latched the top of the cage back on.

"Hm?"

"Show me your arm. The left one."

"Why?"

"Just do it. For me. And take off your coat."

Sherlock shrugged his coat off his shoulders and let it fall to the floor. He extended his arm as if he were a disobedient child about to have it smacked.

"Off with the suit jacket, too," John ordered, and when Sherlock didn't move, the doctor began to remove it for him. John tossed it onto the sofa and turned back to his friend, whose upper half was now left in a white button-down shirt. Sherlock assumed that he should take off his bow tie as well, and once that was off, he began to unbutton the top of his shirt.

"No, stop," said John, trying not to blush but failing miserably. "I just need you to roll up your sleeve."

Sherlock made a petulant face and John realised that he would have to use force again. The doctor seized the detective's arm, one hand on the wrist and the other pushing up the sleeve.

"Christ, Sherlock," John said, looking at the needle marks that travelled down his friend's arm. "Why did you start again?"

Sherlock looked at the floor.

"I'm not angry with you. Disappointed, yeah. Worried, definitely."

"I was bored," Sherlock mumbled. John sighed.

"No._ No, _Sherlock. People don't do drugs because they're bored. Not really. People do drugs because they want to escape. I'm not going to let you escape like that, Sherlock. I need you."

"You need me for entertainment," said Sherlock. "You need my brilliance, and the danger, and the adrenaline rush you get from the Game. But you don't need _me._ You left, didn't you? You were fine. You were fine on your own."

John gripped Sherlock's shoulders and looked straight into the detective's eyes.

"No I wasn't. I WAS NOT FINE! How COULD I be fine? How _CAN_ I be fine when you're hurting yourself, and you're doing it because I'm not here to tell you that _YOU DON'T DESERVE TO BE IN PAIN?"_

Sherlock's multicoloured eyes began to water.

"John..."

John guided Sherlock to the part of the sofa that the hedgehog cage didn't occupy and sat down with him.

"Shh..."

* * *

**"Oh shit, another cliffhanger," you thought to yourself as you finished reading this chapter. "When will they get together?" you wondered. "The next chapter, which is going to be the last one and probably the longest as well," replied the author of the fic. "You're not funny, runningfromexplosions," you thought as the author continued to type in second person, much to your irritation.**


	6. Chapter 6

It started to rain lightly outside 221B, raindrops pattering the window in a soothing rhythm. The droplets cast speckled shadows on Sherlock Holmes, who reclined on the sofa as the lamplight washed his features in warm colours. There was no movement in the flat except for that of John Watson. The ex-army doctor was carrying a cup of tea in each of his hands. He set both cups on the table in front of Sherlock before seating himself next to the detective.

"Earlier today," John began slowly, "I was where your grave had been, you know, when I'd thought you were dead. It's not there anymore, of course. You've always said gravestones are nothing but sentimental objects. Cold stone reminders of stone cold bodies. So it didn't occur to me to tell you that Mary's grave is where yours used to be."

"You're still attached to her," said Sherlock, a statement rather than a question.

"No, it's not exactly...Sherlock, today is the anniversary of the day Mary was shot. That's why I couldn't be at the wedding ceremony, see, I was going for a visit to her grave. This time was different than the others though. I didn't feel sad. I felt...confused."

Sherlock shifted into a more upright sitting position, hands folded under his chin.

"Of course you're confused. Mary Watson," he said, "Wasn't real. You tried to hold on to who you thought she was. She wasn't the same woman that you married, and she wasn't the same woman who I thought of as a friend. She was an assassin and a former agent of Moriarty's."

"It didn't matter to me who she was. It didn't matter for the longest time. I just wanted everything to feel _right _even though it was so wrong. I could have learnt who she really was, but I threw the memory stick into the fire."

"And so you swapped the truth for the lies you preferred," Sherlock finished. He took a sip of the tea cup nearest to him while John looked out the window, pensive.

"But there was still something," said John, turning back to face Sherlock. "On the rooftop, she was supposed to shoot me. She shot Moriarty instead. She saved us, Sherlock. And when she said she loved me, I believed her."

"In the end, I think she did, in a way. Or at least, she wanted to be Mary Watson as much as _you_ wanted her to be. Moriarty knew that. So he set up a scenario in which he dies but he also gets exactly what he wants."

"He said he was going to ruin _you,_ Sherlock, but it was _her_ he was using. It doesn't make sense."

"It makes perfect sense," said Sherlock. The detective leaned forward and he began to recite in his rapid-fire deduction mode: "It's the same type of strategy Magnussen used. Moriarty tells Mary to kill you. He knows that she won't, and that she'll choose to shoot him instead. He knows he is going to die so he gives his men orders in advance. Their last command is to kill the woman who shoots him, but to leave you and me alone. Mary dies, you're devastated, and you leave London. Moriarty dies knowing that he's won, and that's good enough for him; he doesn't need to live anymore when he's finally satisfied."

"That still doesn't tell me what Moriarty's plan had to do with you."

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his curls in agitation.

"And you say _I'm_ emotionally obtuse! _Think,_ John, I know you have at least a _few_ functioning neurons. Remember after I shot Magnussen. I was getting on that plane. What didn't I say to you? What, specifically, did I _fail_ to say?"

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. He didn't know what Sherlock was on about. When John didn't respond, Sherlock leapt from his seat and grabbed his coat from the stand.

"Wait, Sherlock...what are you doing?"

"I'm going for a walk."

"In the rain?"

"Apparently," Sherlock replied as he buttoned his coat, face turned away from John. "Think about my question. No doubt you'll figure out the answer eventually."

"If you're going to leave, at least take an umbrella with you!"

"Umbrellas are for Mycrofts," said Sherlock, and with a swish of his coat and a loud slam of the door, he was gone.

_Really mature,_ John thought. _He runs off to pout rather than talk with me like a reasonable human being. What sort of epiphany is he hoping I'll have?_

John sighed and spent a minute trying to decide what to do in response to Sherlock's dramatic exit. He was finally hit with a strange idea, and rather than chasing after Sherlock (the drama queen would probably be back eventually, soaked and cold), he got up from the sofa. John walked over to the fireplace and picked up the skull that resided on the ledge above it.

"This is ridiculous," John said to the skull. The skull did nothing but show its usual fleshless smile.

"Well, it seems to work for Sherlock, talking to you, so I guess I'll give it a shot."

John seated himself again, this time in his old favourite chair. He balanced the skull on the armrest.

"Now, what did Sherlock say before he got on the flight?"

The skull remained in an inanimate state.

"'Sherlock is actually a girls' name'. What the hell kind of goodbye is that!?"

The skull shrugged. Or it would have, if only it had shoulders.

"What else did he say...?"

_-John, there's something I should say...I've meant to say always, and then never have...since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again, I might as well say it now...-_

"He was going to say something serious, but he changed his mind at the last second and tried to make me laugh instead."

The skull said, _You're getting so very close to the truth. _Or it would have, if only it had vocal chords.

_-What didn't I say to you? What, specifically, did I _fail _to say?-_

"Oh my God," John said, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands taking in fistfuls of his hair. "Does he really...? That's just not possible, is it? There's no way that Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes is in love with me!"

_But it makes sense,_ said voice in John's head that represented the skull. _If Sherlock loves you, then it would explain why you leaving him would have caused him pain. You'd already lived away from Baker Street before, but you and Sherlock still met on occasion to work cases. If Mary was dead, Moriarty thought, then you would leave Sherlock for good because you wouldn't be able to handle the dangerous lifestyle much of a reminder._

"I am a sodding idiot!" John exclaimed. _Quite so,_ the skull agreed, _but first, let's confirm the theory. Go find that fool of a detective and get the truth from him. Cowardice will not be tolerated! You're not a soldier for nothing!_

_Right, just one problem, _John thought, _I'm wearing my best suit. _John looked down at his Prussian blue trousers. Then he looked in the direction of Sherlock's room. He looked at his trousers again. _Well, shit._

"I must be crazy," the ex-army doctor mumbled to himself as he rummaged through Sherlock's drawers. _Very heterosexual, John. _He selected a pair of jeans, which he changed into, and he folded his jacket, trousers, and tie into a pile. He carried the pile back to his chair; left it on the seat. Last of all, he put on his jacket and borrowed the umbrella by the door. _Battle gear, equipped. Operation Sherlock, commence._

John ran out of 221B. The downpour was becoming harder as he dodged the first puddle he encountered, which was inconveniently pooled right in front of the door.

_Damn it Sherlock, where are you?_

John raced past Speedy's, his umbrella threatening to close as the rain pelted it mercilessly. He manoeuvred about the streets, at one point not realising that he was in the road until a cab drove past and sprayed his Sherlock's jeans with water. _Lovely. _He turned the corner, then checked the nearest alleyway only to crash into someone. Someone very tall and very drenched and very much Sherlock Holmes.

"John?" said Sherlock from behind his coat collar.

"Yeah, it's me. What were you thinking, Sherlock, taking off like that?"

"I wanted to see how you would react," the detective said, looking at his friend through the wet strands of hair wildly configured in front of his eyes.

"Oh, ha ha, well, I'm certainly reacting _now._ Is THIS what you want, a REACTION?" John shouted, releasing the umbrella so that it bounced down the pavement. His hands, now free, clamped onto the taller man's shoulders. John pushed Sherlock into the alley behind them, and he shoved the detective against the brick wall.

"Sherlock," John said, looking directly and sincerely into the other man's eyes. "I am going to be very forward with you. I need you to answer a question. Yes or no. Could you do that for me?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, attempting to conceal the amusement on his face, "But first, I must question your motive for taking my jeans. Is it that-"

"Forget the jeans! I'm serious here, Sherlock!"

"Fine. Proceed with your interrogation."

John exhaled deeply, and no longer feeling comfortable looking at his friend, he tilted his head toward the ground and closed his eyes.

"Are you now- or were you ever- in love with me?"

John heard the spatter of raindrops, maybe only ten, maybe a hundred, before Sherlock's voice cracked...

"Yes, I- always. I have always, and I still do. Does that bother you?"

"No, it...makes sense, now that I think about it."

"Then may I ask...what you think of...me?"

"Well...I never gave it much thought, to be honest..." John allowed himself a glance at Sherlock; he saw the vulnerability in the man's face, the raindrops decorating his hair and running down his neck, the wet white button-down sticking to his skin under the long coat. And those _eyes_, they were little blue-green galaxies in almond-shaped windows...

"...nevermind. You know what? _Screw it. _Screw everything!"

"Hm?" said Sherlock. _Ah, so the great detective is finally puzzled! _John thought.

"You, Sherlock. I have tried so hard not to think about feeling anything for you. And it hasn't worked, because you're in my head _perpetually._ You've saved my life countless times, and you've done so much for me, and Christ, I should just shut up before I start to sound like a poorly-written film." John took a deep breath. "Right. 99 percent. I am 99 percent a straight man, but there is an infuriating 1 percent named William Sherlock Scott Holmes who ran out in the rain just so I would chase after him, and he's standing right in front of me."

Sherlock was frozen, hardly breathing. "What is it?" John asked. Sherlock looked at him, wide eyed, like John had suddenly revealed the secrets of the universe to him. "_What is it, Sherlock?" _John repeated, just as he realised that his hands had climbed from Sherlock's shoulders to either side of the detective's pale face. John jerked his hands away and put them in his damp coat pockets. "Sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"It's fine, John. It's all fine," Sherlock said, hesitantly reaching out a gloved hand and gently cupping it around the back of John's head. He leaned in so their their foreheads touched, his head tilted downward to make up for their height difference.

"It's better than fine," John whispered, and all in a rush, Sherlock reached his other arm around John's back, pulled him closer and captured him in a mind-obliterating kiss. John kissed back eagerly, forcefully. He drove a hand into Sherlock's black curls and grabbed them, pulling Sherlock even closer to deepen the kiss. They could taste the rain on each other's lips and although they were both cold in the relentless downpour, their connection was full of heat.

Finally, they broke apart, gasping for air.

"That was...good," Sherlock panted.

"Was it enough?"

"Not even close."

John kissed Sherlock again, briefly. "I'm wearing your jeans," he giggled.

"You threw your umbrella away for me," Sherlock giggled, stealing another kiss.

"We're both drenched. We should go back to the flat and change our clothes."

"Change, or remove altogether?"

"Sherlock, are you _flirting_ with me?"

"Problem?"

"None at all," said John as he fetched the umbrella from where he'd dropped it. He handed it to Sherlock, smiling at him, and Sherlock took it from him, smiling back. The detective took his partner's hand without dropping his gaze, and John smiled wider. With his other hand, Sherlock held the umbrella over both of their heads, and the two of them began to walk back to 221 B together.

* * *

AaaAAAaAAAAAAAAAaA! I did it! I finished my first complete multichapter fanfiction ever! Sorry, I'm just really excited. I've only ever written incomplete stories and oneshots so I feel really accomplished. Thanks to the person who wrote the prompt! I hope my writing has improved throughout the chapters. Oh yeah, one more thing. Feel free to send me prompts, okay? I get bored a lot and I'm not really picky about ships (Johnlock is my OTP :)) I'm in lots of fandoms too. Blah blah blah...p.s. if you read all the way to the end here, you are now my fave person. Thanks for the support!


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